


Death Inheritance

by Akumaloligirl



Category: Creepypasta - Fandom, Original Work
Genre: Abuse, Abusive Relationships, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Creepypasta, Dissassociative Identity Disorder, Evil, Gen, Horror, Humiliation, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Insanity, Kidnapping, Master/Pet, Mental Breakdown, Mental Health Issues, Mental Illness, Mental Instability, Monster - Freeform, Monsters, Multiple Personality Disorder, Mystery, Pain, Power Dynamics, Power Imbalance, Religion, Satan - Freeform, Schizophrenia, Stockholm Syndrome, Surgery, Thriller, Torture, Violence, Weird, enema, middle aged character, suoernatural - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-24
Updated: 2018-10-24
Packaged: 2019-04-20 07:04:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14255556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Akumaloligirl/pseuds/Akumaloligirl
Summary: A middle aged man who hallucinates monsters gets black out drunk one night and finds a man chained in his basement the next morning. He has to figure out what exactly happened and how not to go to prison.





	1. I See Thing That Don't Exist

I see things that aren't there, lurking on the knife's edge of shadow. I watch their indistinct movements as they slowly drag themselves across the unswept floor. I see their pale faces mottled by horrific scars, watching me with empty eye sockets dripping the red fluid of life, naked with dripping Fangs masticating shards of bone, curved claws, and serrated quills running down hunching spines protruding out of skinny bodies that contort and flail in inhuman ways. Ribs poke out behind the thick skin of a violently bruised torso speckled in black and blue. A missing nose making loud, wet snuffling grunts. Or some I see with too many eyes clustered together in bulbous, misshapen head with large pieces of flesh dangling uselessly and without reason. With freakishly long arms ending in knobbly fungers that taper into sharp talons with furred backs in mismatched piebald. Or others I see with a thin coat of wisps, mangey ropes of fibers matted together covering wrinkled, bleeding chests with many nipples going down the stomach in two rows, every bit a beast. But unifying all of my hallucinations are a few singular traits: they are all female. They are all horrendous with eye-watering stench unlike any other rising like vapor off their broken forms. And they are all injured in some way, whether scarred or burned or hosting festering sores or open gashes.

These are the monsters I see. Fiends I watch, perturbed, from beneath the safety of the light. And always unsettled by the knowledge that they too watch. Their eyes follow me, rapt with attention on my every little movement. Profane they are. Vile goblins that hate me and all that I stand for. It is a curse to see them. To have them harass me at my every waking moment. Just off the edge of my vision, lingering, as they snuffle and snort. The deep rasping breaths they take sends chills down my spine. Their yowling keeps me up at night and the only way I can get any sleep is if I bring myself to the point of blacking out. This is my punishment. 

The world's poetic justice, I suppose, for all the evil I have done. I am not a good person. I never was. I have a predilection for booze. And not just the Sunday beer kind. The heavy stuff that burns the nose with the faintest whiff. I have a temper fro hell. I fly off the handle at the littlest stuff. I have been known to do more than just swear at people when they make me angry. I have thrown things, broken ceramic plates and decorations, and have even traded more than my fair share of punches. And not just with men. When I'm angry, I'm blind to the little things like how the man with long hair I'm beating on looks like a woman. 

But I've done worse than hit a few guys mouthing off when angry or gotten blackout drunk at ten in the morning. I am divorced, and not because of a difference of opinion. I used to knock her around. Never hard enough to break bones, mind; I was more careful than that. She left me five years ago. I was never evil enough to lay a hand on our daughter though. But I suppose sometimes my words to her were cruel enough that hitting her might have hurt less. Over the years, I evidently conditioned her into being a masochist because she and I still get together and talk, have lunch. 

Without a doubt though, the worst thing I have ever done is put a man in a permanent coma. Admittedly, it was in self defense. The man had broken into our home with a loaded gun and threatened us with our deaths. He promised not to do any drastic as long as we kept our hands in the air and stayed calm. He declared this as he ripped the phone cord from the wall. But it had ricocheted back and hit him smack in the eye. He swore and pressed the palm of his hand to his affliction. Sensing an opportunity, I lunged for the gun. We struggled but I managed to swipe his feet out from under him, and without thinking I fired the gun at him. It hit him in the head, but no it didn't kill him. But it might as well have. The doctors are sure he will never wake up. I do not regret my actions. I lose no sleep over this. That day I felt more like a true man than I ever have, and most probably will since. It took a while for my family to move on from the trauma but I kept them distracted with my cruelty.

I first started seeing the fiends though only a few years ago. At first, I thought it might be due to the alcohol. But I researched into it and the hallucination are not a part of the side affects of drinking. Then I thought to myself "a tumor?" But alas no. Perhaps depression then, after all this happened around the same time as my wife, Lucille, left me. I couldn't figure it out, so eventually I stopped questioning and just rolled with it.

Despite all I've done--the binge drinking and the temper and the abuse and the goblins--I've been able to keep a steady job. In fact the only job I've ever had. I've worked at Immaculate Plumbing Co. for thirty-one years. And in this time, I've found that shit is universal. And it's a universal truth that people avoid shit whenever necessary. So this, I am in demand. Being here for so long, I have a pretty high position. Senior manager of one of our company's buildings. Had to work my way up from sopping shit but I eventually got completely away from the clogged toilets and foul-smelling public bathrooms with feces smeared across the wall over carvings of phone numbers. Now the cushy manager position is my reaped reward. 

My name is Bill del Cruz. Or, if you're the fancy type, William del Cruz. But Bill suits me better. Or so I have been told in the past by those that have had the misfortune of knowing me. And I am the man who captures baseballs that have the bad luck of landing in my contaminated yard. All the parents warn their children away from me. I can hardly blame them. If one judges solely on appearance, I am the perfect picture of a neighborhood sex offender. Not that I am one. But my yard is unkempt and I hate an unsettling resemblance to a Nazi.

I am not a young man whose life if brimming with endless possibilities. Rather, I am one year from fifty, not yet the old man waving his cane at the neighbors as I go on a tangent about "how back in my day..." But close enough that I am inching closer and closer to retirement. But it I did retire there is very little I'd have to do besides drink. I have very little of a life. The booze is a sure fire way to keep one from having close interpersonal relationships. I could fix up my house, but what's the point? I never have company besides my daughter Lacey. And she grew up in this house. She knows it's a crapshack. So I, like the rest of the human race, growl and gripe and coldly resent the passage of years bringing me closer to my inevitable death of liver failure.

I have never been a vain man, but I despise that I look my age. My hair is greeting at the sides of my head and thinning at the top. A great fuzzy bears reaching to the mid chest caresses a stereotypical squared American jaw. What isn't afflicted with grey is a dusky blonde color that suits women better than it does men. And my nose has already grown several times larger than it used to be. The bridge of my nose is broad, sweeping sharply outward as though the cartilage is trying to snap out. The tip is rounded, the nostrils up and facing out, giving me the likeness of a pig's snout. There is a blotched redness to my nose, giving others the impression that I am trapped in an eternal plague of allergies. My eyes look permanently narrowed and sit widely set in my skull with heavy lids, rolling wrinkles framing twinkling blurry blue and to top it all off they sit behind thick glasses that boldly state that I don't give a fuck about style. I used to wear contacts but when you've got a hangover from hell, you don't want to spend twenty minutes trying to put something in just to be able to see where the toilet is so you can throw up. My midsection is thick with a large heaving gut that sits heavily over my belt. My arms are thick, my fingers fat, my knuckles hairy from long bristles like the backs of pigs. My legs are too long for the rest of my squat, barrel-chested torso and stubby arms. With the proportions of my upper body, I should reach only a height of 5'8 but instead I tower at 6'4 because of my gangly, disproportionate legs.

I am the creepy man who lives on the last house down the street with the corroded metal gate with jagged broken bars. I live in that old house with the droopy porch with rotted wood that looks too distrustworthy to tread upon. My dusty Windows and strangely stained door face forward to form the semblance of a creepy, frowning face. Dead flower and trampled, yellowing grass spread through my overgrown yard. Huge stalks of random greenery shoot up near the ground by my moldy stairs that lead up to the porch, the third step cracked in the center, too unsteady to walk upon. Vines have overtaken an old, disused basketball hoop in the corner, the pole stained bronze with rust and the chain center broken. An eerie, disconcerting sound from the chain hoop, a mild clanking with every errant breeze. 

One thing I want to make clear is that I'm not crazy. I know it's a cliched and overused phrase that often proves to be the babbling lie of a raving lunatic. But all the same, I'm not. I might have some kind of disorder or maybe a brain addled by a lifetime of alcohol but I am NOT crazy. I may see things that aren't there, and yes I know those monsters I see do not actually exist. I may have a temper you might want to incorrectly attribute to psychopathy. I may be a lazy patriarch of drunks who isn't concerned with yard upkeep. I may look and sound like some sort of supremicist. But I am not some screw-loose wacko spinning some fantastical story like in one of those creepypastas the kids today are obsessed with. 

My story is about the man I currently have tied up in one of the many leaky pipes in my unfinished basement. How did this happen? Your guess is as good as mine.


	2. Chapter 2

Three months ago, I woke up as I always do. With a splitting headache in a hangover that's a haze of white hot aging and nausea. My teeth felt fuzzy, I found as I ran my tongue over them. My head is just as fuzzy, like it was filled with rum-soaked cottonballs. I slowly propped myself up on my 80's style, plastic-wrapped yellow couch where I elected to lose consciousness on last night. A giant yawn filled up my mouth, prying open my jaw as I threw back the thin afghan that my ex-wife had knitted fifteen years ago. It was stained a grayish brown and was in need of a good washing. After grabbing my glasses from the armrest, I did as I always did; take a leek and then go to the refrigerator to scrounge around for something to eat so I had something to throw up besides bile.

I heated up some off brand Mac n cheese which I knew from experience tasted like cheezwiz and cardboard that I couldn't recall making last night. A glance at the clock told me that it was three in the afternoon. I always have Wednesdays off, which means that Tuesday nights I hit the booze hard. Harder than usual, which is why three medium sized bottles of rum and one miniature bottle of vodka litter the floor by the couch. It hurt to think, so I didn't wonder if I got drnm with or without my best friend, Gary, last night. It didn't matter. Either way, I would have been drinking. 

I grabbed the small trash an from underneath the sink and took that, an almost clean fork, a d my mac n cheese with me back to the couch I would've taken an aspirin or nausea related pills but I was out. this is what a bachelor's life was for me: drinking and never doing chores like cleaning the dishes or going shopping. Most days I would wear the same shirt for about a week straight, with countless food stains proudly bragging of the fact across the chest, before I remembered to get my ass in gear and do the laundry. 

I sat back down on my couch with care, curling one leg underneath me and the other extended out sideways on the empty side of the couch, the food steaming on the armrest. I let my head loll back and took a moment to practice my deep breathing. The cotton ball feeling in my head faded to a heaviness like my brain was replaced by three ton rocks. Blood was rushing in my ears, just barely drowning out the high pitched ringing I hear screeching all around me. I covered my ears and let out a low groan of pain. From the corner of my eyes., I could see a moving flash of shadow but when I focused nothing was there. This was, of course, nothing out of the ordinary for me, but still, even after all this time afflicted by their nightmarish visions of Gehenna's damned inhabitants, it was unsettling all the same.

Every little movement seen out of the corner of my vision caused my skin to prickle. Every sound of their low, snorting growl caused me to shiver. Their stench always gave them away but before they would show themselves to me, they would taunt me with little sightings like this. Little discrepancies to my daily life. A wrong angle to a shadow. My phone moved from the place I left it, found later j the strangest of places, same as my keys. A sound of skittering across the wood panels. The tinkling of windchimes that do not exist. A ringing in my head. Rooms darkening for no reason, making the shadows rise up like towers and swell to encompass more than just the darkly lit corners of the room. They teased, like little children are released by their parents, but despite this seemingly innocent start, the real horror always follows and the innocence rots away to the calamity of my affliction.

I have not yet been attacked. For now they are content to frighten and horrify. Or perhaps they are unable to do me harm yet. I have hung several crosses in my house. Large crucifixes made of wood, small ones of sterling silver, and even some that took some searching for like iron to repel evil. They are all hung in every room of my house. The power of Christ compels and all that. Or perhaps the crosses are meaningless, after all why would God save me? I am not a decent Christian man. I never attended church, though perhaps I should start.

I can hardly talk to a shrink about this. They'd definitely put me away or at the very least shoot me up full of drugs so I'm in a state of zombieism more potent than the near comatose state the booze could ever put me into. No no no, I don't want that. And after all, if the hallucination of hell's minions aren't physically felt, then there's really nothing to freak out over. I shouldn't be a pussy about this. Still, my eyes kept drifting back to that shadow. Oh how innocent it looked right then. Just a shadow cast in front of a ground-sitting speaker next to my fifty inch TV. It didn't ripple as I watched it. It just sat, still, blackened and incorporeal. But every time I glanced away, I would see movement.

I sighed and scooped up a heaping bite onto my fork and shoved it into my open mouth. Always eat before brushing your teeth kiddies. It tasted wrong in my mouth, overlapping the acidulous aftertaste of the booze and combining to form the perfect vomit-inducing flavor. I repressed the urge to gag, glaring down at the food, offended at the very sight of it. But when needs must and all that. 

Then I heard a clinking noise down in the basement. I dismissed it as old pipes and continued eating slowly. Just because I knew I couldn't keep the food down didn't mean I wanted to just shovel it all in there. My throat burned, stomach acid rising at the back only to be swallowed back by burnt, cheesy noddles. After a little while, it all came bursting back up and I spent the next three hours curled up by the toilet. But when the clinking kept up, I knew something was wrong. So once I got my stomach to stop rebelling against me, I curled the afghan around my shoulders and made my way down the concrete stairs of my basement. 

I stopped dead once I reached the last step and turned on the light. I had expected an animal to be the cause of the clinking. Not a bound and gagged fully grown man tied up to a pipe. He blinked blearily at me before his eyes widened and he made these muffled grunt sounds as he tried skidding back as far as he could against the wall. I stood sort of frozen, there at the bottom of the steps, staring with eyes like that of a dead fish. My mind failed me, and refused to compute what I was looking at. Surely, this is some sort of mistake. Another hallucination, perhaps?

Other than a suspicious red stain on the collar of his shirt, the man was in good condition. No bruises or cuts on his face. His long bangs were plastered to the skin of his temples from a cold sweat of fear. His wide, tearful eyes were more bloodshot than mine had murky brown irises that were swallowed up by abnormally dialated pupils. His hair was the same color as his eyes. His shirt dampened from sweat. The ankles of his jeans tucked up around his calves as though he had been squirming around. He probably had been. I know I would have. He had average looks and a face you'd never look twice at in a crowd. The man was a bit on the tall side, and his long legs curled up underneath him awkwardly. Muffled sounds of protest came from behind his gag. 

A look of terror was stamped across his face and I couldn't blame him. Even if he wasn't hurt, he was tied up, vulnerable, and gagged in a basement of a person he didn't know. It was a recipe for fear. Potent fear. I moistened my lips and I stared 

What the hell? No what the fuck!? What the happened? I have no memory of kidnapping anyone. I had no memory of last night period.

"Is this a prank?" I muttered under my breath, the words breathed out sharply and my voice cracking on the last word. But I have no friends that would pull something like this. I have no friends period except for a fellow alcoholic ten years my junior.. So...how... I may be an angry drunk but I ain't that stupid so just what's going on? I am a violent man. This I do not deny. However, I have never wanted to harm someone beyond that of a broken nose in a drunken brawl or self defense. So even if I did take someone and shove them in my basement, what exactly did I plan to do? Make them Macarena across a homemade catwalk in an old Madonna costume like some demented segment of Toddlers and Tiaras?

I put my head in my hands and my fingers thread through my hair. Another snuffle sound but this time coming from behind me. My back tensed and I went very still. It's one of them. The monaters. It's standing behind me right now. Readied to pounce. It'll rake it's claws through me. It'll tear my flesh, large chunks of the folds of my back fat caught beneath its nails. A shudder works its way down my spine as I struggle to remain calm. The light is dim here in the basement. There are no windows to let in any natural light. The only glow is cast by a single hanging lightbulb I'm standing directly beneath.

Keeping my eyes trained forward, I tried not to focus on the fact that the shadows are now rippling again in a constant swaying, flickering motion like demon fire. The little light there is seemed to be leeched away by the growing darkness of the basement, thinning to a single thread and soon so dim I can't even see the man anymore . All I see is darkness, the last Strang of light illuminating only me. My breathed strangled, stuttering in my chest.

"It's not there. Nothing's there. I'm fine. I'm okay. Nothing's there," I mumbled to myself, voice edging towards hysteria. I forced my panicked breathing to come out in long huffs. The man stared at me in a cautious confusion but I paid him little attention. My spine felt like it was about to burst out, he muscles surrounding it squeezing hard.


End file.
